Help Myself
by Pazelu
Summary: Those who have themselves experienced hardships show compassion to those who do as they once did.


_Tink! Tut-tut-tsssss. Fffff. Tink. Hhhhhhhff…huuuuhhh._

The taste of the cigarette calms my shaking hands, my trembling lips. It's been too long...I can't even remember the last time I was attacked this bad. Not since the Ranger Scouts incident, I don't think. I blink blood out of my eye and try to soothe the angry pain of the cut on my forearm by licking it. I'm all too familiar with the taste. The taste of my own blood...But this one was too brutal to forget anytime soon. Mr. Big was really motivated for that $500 I borrowed from him. Crazy Italians. Like I'm stupid enough to try and knowingly rip off the leader of the mafia. Three successful job interviews later and I'm on my way to covering my debt. Course, Big's patience is the exact opposite of his anger: barely used, distributed in very small quantities, and directed to only select animals. I told him I'd have his point-five K by the end of the week, plus interest. He seemed happy about it, but that didn't stop his dimwit, tux-clad Russian polar bear, Kevin, from roughing me up. My head hasn't throbbed like this since my last sinus headache. And that thing might as well have bifurcated my muzzle and spared me the pain. Death was preferable to that Satan-spawn of an illness.

I start thinking of my cover story as a take another puff of this cigarette. Every time I ran into Mr. Big, I always had some kind of visible injury I'd have to explain to my mother. The first time, it was a bruise on my clavicle that I blamed on a stray ball bearing in shop class. After that, it was a black eye allegedly caused by a door that I was clumsy enough to walk into while it was only halfway open. And, most recently, it was a broken arm I got during men's volleyball practice. Luckily, Mom didn't check with the coach to confirm the story, and I was able to intercept Coach Swedley before he called and asked my mom what had happened. But now it's spring. That means it's swim season. And there's no way my mother would believe that I cut my arm this seriously by scraping it across the sharp edge of a starting block. A couple of generic injuries would slip by undetected, but this? Please. I'm a fox. I've got to give myself more credit than that. I'm a high school senior, not an accident-prone hazard zone. Maybe she'd buy the auto shop class injury again. We use sharp stuff all the time in that class. Lots of animals hurt themselves there. How hard could it be to spin that story again?

But as soon as I say it in my head, I answer it. The whole "got to Coach before Mom found out" thing was sheer luck. I doubt it's going to happen again. Even I'm not that good. I might be crafty, but I'm not invincible. So what else involves sharp objects, danger, and imminent bodily harm? A mugging. Yes! A mugging! Some psycho tried to beat me up and steal my cash, Ma! But I fought him off, just like those self-defense classes I've been paying for taught me! We've gotta…

We've gotta call the cops.

No. No blue, no badges, no rules and regulations. If I tried to feed my mom the robber story, she'd have me at the police station, describing a ghost to the sketch artist. And I've seen Seanny English, so I know what happens when you try to make up a perp on the spot. Worse off, I might peg it on someone who's got a history with the cops-or who's an upstanding citizen of the community. My one big no-no: pointing the cops to an innocent animal. Anyone who's squeaky clean doesn't need a blot on their spotless record, and I don't need that kind of guilt weighing on my conscience. Let the good guys stay good guys. Let the criminals stay criminals.

Without even thinking about what I had said, the generalization of both groups brought my soul to its knees. Was I really that low, that I'd label myself a criminal? It didn't matter that I was only committing misdemeanors: underage smoking, shady loans, stuff like that. I was on the wrong side of the law. I look at the cigarette in thought: horrifying, self-loathing thought. I was the last person I expected to live on the wrong side of the law, and now I'm an addict who's wallowing in debt to the most powerful animal in the criminal underworld. The deadly roll of paper and tobacco bends and slowly becomes a mess in my trembling, furiously clenched paw. I'm angry at myself. Angry beyond words.

"What's wrong with me?" I whisper desperately, tearfully, as if begging a higher power to provide me with an answer. How could I have let my life go like this? I was always a good kid. I had good grades in every class I took, I've been contacted by multiple ivy leagues, I was always the goody two shoes kid at school. Then, one day, a friend offers me a little puff, and now my life is in shambles? I blink back the tears in my eyes, the tears I know aren't coming from irritation, but emotion. God...what have I done to myself? I'm better than this. I always have been. I have to stop this before it gets too out of hand. As if it hasn't already…

I reach in my pocket, feeling for the pack I'm carrying. I always have one with me, just in case I need a smoke. But no more. I'm quitting, and I'm quitting now. Never again will I light up. There. My fingers cradle the cigarette pack they've been hunting so mercilessly for. I pull the box of death out and bring it up to eye level, examining it through tear-stained eyes.

"Take a good long look, Wilde," I say to myself in this watery, despairing voice. "This is the last one you'll ever get your paws on."

My free paw reaches for the lighter in my other pocket. I find it with ease and pull it out into view, disgusted.

"Nice knowing you, you life-taking piece of hell," I spit. I flick my thumb. The lighter sparks. Spark. Spark. Fire. I watch as my paws bring the two objects together, witness the light catch the cigarette pack on fire. It smokes, and smokes, flames curling around the fabric, licking the cigarettes dangerously. I drop it on the ground, to avoid getting burned, and watch it as it shrinks into ash.

No more.

These things will no longer control me. A greater power whispers in my ear, commands me to rise above this, to rise above the popular interest, above what society says is cool or normal. I feel myself slip into a trance. The flames are...poetic, I guess. Pretty much everything I've been up until this point is crumbling to ash with that box. I feel a tear in my eye, and promptly rub it out. No one needs to see me cry.

But no one's looking anyway.

Fine then. I'll cry.

Silently.

The tears are free now. They come like they're part of a freshly-started riot. A riot that's been planned and rehearsed for months. A lump rises in my throat, and it's all I can do to keep it where it is. I raise the backs of two fingers to my mouth to keep myself from sobbing. And all the while, I don't know why. I'm starting off on the right foot. I'm erasing the old me and replacing him with the new me. What's making me so sad?

The fire's gone. The lump in my throat heaves itself upward, trying to get out. I fight it down with resolve one last time, and it submits, crawling back to wherever it came from. The tears haven't stopped, but the sobs are gone, never to be heard. I'm blinking way too much to look normal. If someone walks by now, they'll know I'm crying.

I can't stay out here anymore. I'm tired. Really tired. That stupid smoke didn't help at all. One foot, then the other. Might as well face Ma. The apartment's bed is too tempting for me to stay awake out here any longer. I need my sleep. There's a test in calculus tomorrow, anyway. Fortunately, our apartment is on the other side of this building, which means I can smoke close to home without fear of discovery.

Well, _could_ smoke close to home. I've quit.

I trudge up the steps to the building and open the door, already half asleep. The middle-aged, somewhat cheerful landlady is behind the counter. She smiles at me.

"Mr. Wilde," she says. "We're up rather late tonight, huh? Long study group?"

All this time, and the poor, unknowing armadillo still thinks I've been studying for class with my buddies. "Yeah. How's it going, Dharma?"

"Not bad," she replies. "About to turn in. Dan takes his shift in a few minutes, and I'll get some sleep. Finally."

"I know the feeling." My feet scuff on the floor as I drag myself to the foot of the stairs. I give the flight a good look, then begin the long ascent to the second floor. With each step, I shout at myself in my head.

 _No_ more smoking!... _No_ more late-night adventures!… _No_ more lying!... _No_ more wasting your potential! You start over _now!_

Before I know it, I'm standing in the doorway to my apartment, my paw on the doorknob and my eyes taking in the scene of my mother having a panic attack.

"Nick!" she cries out almost breathlessly. "What happened to you?"

I wince as she embraces me in a hug; those jabs to the rib cage hit me harder than I thought. Guess I'd have to return the favor sometime. Thanks, Kevin. Your ex-KGB status is serving you well. "I'm fine, Ma," I say, my voice giving away the pain I'm feeling.

"You don't _sound_ fine," my mom presses, breaking off the hug so she can look at me. One paw's on my back, the other's caressing my cheek in a very "motherly love" kind of way. Her green eyes are so concerned, and they're staring right at me. Great. I have a black belt in about three or four forms of self-defense, and I still haven't found a way to counter Mom's worrying about me. Oh well. I'm not even gonna lie anyway. Might as well face the music and get it over with.

"Ma, listen." I pause and take a breath. I've committed to honesty on this one, but how do I weasel around saying it directly?

"I haven't been studying, Ma. I've been sneaking out to light up." I curse myself for saying it so bluntly. What? All this know-how and I wasn't able to sugarcoat it for my own mother? Too late; her eyes grow wide. She throws herself around me and starts crying.

"But I'm done, Ma. I hate it. I hate cigarettes. I hate what I've done to myself." I can hear the lump in my throat rising again, but this time I can't fight it; it comes relentlessly, and this time it brings its friends.

"G-God, Ma, I can't take it anymore!" I bury my muzzle into her shoulder, unable to speak out of pure shame and self-loathing. I feel her do the same. So here we are, mother and son, shedding tears for my stupidity. It feels horrible. Days, months, years of sneaking out to smoke, days, months, years of lies and deceit, all getting a guilty conscience at once. I want to stay here forever and cry the entire time.

Cry. That's all I want to do. Cry.

I feel my mother's muzzle lift itself off of my shoulder, but she stays still, holding me like she has been this entire time.

"It's all right, sweetie," I hear her saying in a soft, watery voice. "Go ahead. Keep going, baby."

I can't stop crying. I couldn't stop if my life depended on it. I want to look my mom in the eyes, but I can't. The sobs come and come, and I have no control over them. They have minds of their own.

And then they stop.

Now there's only confusion. I look up, bringing my nose out of my mother's shoulder. Why did they stop? Now I'm sniffling, nothing more. Where did the sobs go? The tears have voices no longer. They roll silently down my cheek for the second time tonight. I force myself to look at my mother. I expect sorrow, or anger, but…

She's smiling?

"Oh, Nick," she says, relieved. "I'm so glad you came home."

I give her a weird look. Came home? "Ma, we've lived in the same apartment my entire life."

She chuckled. "I mean figuratively. It takes a real fox to reveal your skeletons. People tend not to trust you if you hide them."

I can't resist a good opportunity to make a joke. I've never really been able to. "Then don't look in my closet."

It works; my mom laughs, and I can't help but give a few chuckles, too. It feels good to laugh. After all that crying, it's nice to have a little break in the sorrow. It lets me relax, but more than that, it helps me think. What about the cops? I've been doing something illegal. I should come clean. But something stops me. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't want me going to the cops.

"Something else wrong, sweetie?" my mom asks me, my muzzle apparently giving away the debate in my head.

"Uhhhh…" My brain isn't working on speech, it's working on this dilemma I shouldn't be in. You do something wrong, you tell the authorities, right? But if I go, I won't be able to pull hustles with Finnick for a while. And a sizable chunk of our rent money will go away. And my mom will call the market and tell them I won't be showing up for work, and they'll tell her I don't work there, and she'll know I lied to her. While my mind's out to lunch wrestling with itself, my mouth gets a brain of its own.

"I'm gonna turn myself in," it says without my consent. Immediately, I know what's about to happen. My mom is going to beg me not to go, and I'll tell her that I can't live like I have been, and she'll try her best to keep me from going, but I've already made up my mind. Go ahead, Ma. Just try and stop me.

But she doesn't. She hugs me again. My arms hang limply at my sides, and I feel really stupid. Quickly, I wrap them around her, like I should have in the first place.

"I'm so proud of you, Nick," she says.

I feel my eyes go wide as I try to make sense of what just happened. Wait, what? I push her away as delicately as I can, like I've seen in movies.

"What?" I ask her, amazed at how disbelieving I sound. I try to tone it down. "Ma, I just told you I've been lying to you for years."

She nods. "Like I said, it takes a real fox to admit to their wrongdoings. It's one thing to tell your mother. But to tell a total stranger...that's something even bigger."

She puts her paws on my shoulders and looks at me like I've graduated from one of those ivy leagues that want me to attend their school. "Now let's go down to the ZPD, honey. I'll drive you down, and you can go in and talk to someone."

I smile knowingly. One thing I know about my mom: she looks out for her boy. "Thanks, Ma."

* * *

As we pull up to the ZPD HQ, I start to feel nervous. I've kind of been expecting it, but it's still kind of unnerving. I've been lying to basically everyone I know, excepting Finnick, for a really long time. And now, in one night, I've suddenly turned a new proverbial leaf. But there's still a feeling of wrongness to it. Not wrongness like morally or socially wrong, but instinctively wrong. Once you get used to doing something, doing the opposite can be scary like you wouldn't believe.

Mom's brake foot pushes down just a little too hard, and the small, sudden jolt throws me into reality. Apparently, my body jerked a little bit, because she apologizes.

"Sorry about that, honey."

I shake it off. One thing about foxes: we're resilient. I open the door, just about to climb out, when I get a thought. I turn around and kiss my mother on the cheek. She smiles and looks at me like only a mother can.

"I love you, Nick," she said. "Now go on. Make me and your father proud."

I clench my teeth behind my lips. Mom knows I'm not too keen on talking about Dad. She probably thought I'd be vulnerable enough to let it by, but she really should have known better. The second I hear "Dad" or "Oscar," I don't think of him as the guy who fathered me. I think of him as the guy who left my mother after she had me. All it took was a two month old Nick, and he was gone. But this time, this one time, I'm letting it slide. For Ma. God knows she doesn't need any more stress in her life.

"I will, Ma," is all I say.

With that, I climb out of the car and close the door, giving Mom one last smile-and-wave before I walk up the steps to the department.

The inside of the ZPD isn't nearly as soul-sucking as I imagined. There's a uniformed antelope at the front desk, talking to a jaguar about something. He's smiling, though. I'm not entirely sure why, but I eavesdrop as I get closer.

"...this, and when you sign this, it's not an admission of guilt or anything like that. It's just a note saying that you'll notify the Department of Mammal Vehicles of the accident within ten days. Okay?"

"Thank you, Officer," the jaguar says, signing her name on what was probably some kind of dotted line. It was a little difficult to hear her with her back turned to me, but that's what fox ears are for. I continue eavesdropping.

"My pleasure, miss," the antelope replies. "Have yourself a good night."

The jaguar takes the paper and turns to go out. On her way, our eyes meet. She looks at me like she doesn't know whether to be disgusted or sympathetic. She passes me without a word. I was kind of predicting that would happen. No matter. I approach the antelope, my nervousness coming back suddenly.

The cop gives me a once-over and whistles, his face giving off a vibe of slight concern.

"Jeez, kid," he says. "You all right? What happened?"

My nervousness turns to anxiety just like that. "Uh…." I fight to glean a word, a phrase, anything to say. "Ummmm…"

"God," he exclaims. "Let me get someone to help you out." He turns and yells to an officer.

"BOGO!"

Four seconds pass by with no response. Who was this Bogo guy?

My question is answered in the form of an ultra-muscular water buffalo with arm hair and eyeglasses who looks like he's in his mid-twenties. I gulp, hopefully not audibly. What's Bogo going to do to me?

Smile, apparently. Big old intimidating dude turns out to be a big old cuddly teddy bear. All righty then. Guess I'll just grit my teeth and go with it. The antelope's still smiling for some reason.

"Bogo here's probably our best cop as far as handling physical injuries goes," he explains. "He'll take over from here."

"Thanks, O'Malley," Bogo says in an accent, getting closer. The bigger-animal/police uniform combo triggers my instinct to run, but my mind fights against it.

So I end up going nowhere, looking like an awestruck idiot. Or a deer in the headlights. Take your pick.

"Got a bit of a working over, I see," Bogo says in what sounds like an attempt to get a casual conversation going, his hoof wrapping around my shoulder and guiding me into an office.

"No kidding," I reply flatly. "How'd you know?"

"Sarcastic much, are we?" comes the half-chuckled reply, its owner ushering me into an office. "I like that."

I process as much information about the room as I can, throwing my eyes around haphazardly in my skull. A name different than "Bogo" is on the plaque placed on the front of the desk. Weapons memorabilia and photos of soldiers litter the far wall. I can see a photo with a family in the picture, and then right next to it is a photo of a very motherly-looking lioness in a cop uniform. Clearly, this is the chief, and this Bogo cop's mooching off her office. I decide to bring this up in a way that will show off my tactical assessment abilities. Hey, I'm guilty, but not enough to keep from bragging a bit.

"Is the chief okay with you using her office?" I ask.

Bogo falters a bit, but quickly recovers. "Well then, I'll be," he says, sounding a little impressed. "Always heard you foxes were sharp, but that's something else. We could use you, kid."

I chuckle a bit. "Thanks, but I'm not here for a job application."

"True," Bogo echoes. "Got a pretty good beatdown, by the looks of it." He sits down in the chief's chair, which I imagine takes some stones, and pulls it up to the desk, propping his chin up on his hooves as his elbows rest on the table. "So how did this happen?"

For two seconds, my brain screams at me to shut up and spin a story. Anything, anything but the truth. I don't want this anymore. I want to lie to this guy so I don't have to go through anything painful. But then I stop myself. What am I saying? This is what I came here for. "The mafia," I say, barely audibly to even myself.

"Come again, kid?" Bogo asks.

I sigh. "The mafia." Even to _me_ it sounds like a lie.

Bogo leans forward and ruffles his snout at me, looking me over, probably trying to detect any kind of tell in my face that he can use to prove that I'm lying. Finally, he sits back and sighs through his rather large nostrils. It's a long, forlorn sigh, kind of like a cross between annoyance and pity. "All right, _that's_ a new one. Teens who come in are usually in debt to small-time dealers, and _very_ rarely, they've got to pay off a loan shark. But the mafia...now _they're_ bad news. How'd you get into business with them?"

Great. Now we're hitting the cause of my predicament. Just fabulous. I wince a little before I open my mouth, afraid of his reaction. "Basically, a friend put me in contact with them. I come from a dirt-poor family and I was looking for money to buy some smokes. I just wanted to try it. But then one thing led to another, and…" I trail off, looking at the ground in shame.

The buffalo is silent. I still can't bear to face him, though, so I keep looking at the carpet-covered floor. It's actually a very nice carpet, now that I think about it. Kind of mahogany-ish with a touch of...what is that, chartreuse? Weird, but it's not that bad, honestly.

"How much?"

I look up from the carpet and into Bogo's scrutinizing eyes. "Sorry, what?"

Bogo raises an eyebrow, not threateningly, but with more of a curious frowningness to it. Frowningness. Is that a word?

"How much?" Bogo says for the third time, now starting to get a little irritated.

"Half a K," I said.

I'm expecting the fireworks to go off. I'm preparing my brain for a seven course screamo concert. But it never comes. Actually, Bogo sighs, relieved. "Thank God."

For a second, I'm a little bit hacked off. "What are you talking about?! Five hundred dollars is gonna take me two weeks of full-time working to pay off! Are you kidding me?! How is this good?!"

"It's good because point-five G's is a tangible amount." Bogo sat down with a chuckle of relief. "I thought I'd have to dig deeper into the old bank account."

What's this guy talking about?! " _I'm_ the one with the debt! What's it costing _you_ for this?"

Bogo gives me a look. "Five hundred dollars."

Hold on. Is he saying what I _think_ he's saying? "You're gonna pay off my debt?" I ask, sounding like the stereotypical dumbfounded guy that's overcome with thankful shock at another animal's generosity.

Bogo nods without a trace of sarcasm or malice. "I was recently awarded a cash prize at a film festival. I mean, really, I'll still have ninety percent of my prize money after I give you the five hundred."

I'm awestruck. This can't be happening right now. A total stranger with every reason to hate me is _helping_ me? But Bogo's not done.

"And if you want a more permanent solution to the cigarette problem, I have connections at a rehab center. And with a hypnotist. I also know a hypnotist. Take your pick."

I open my mouth to say something like, "Thanks," or "That's so kind of you," but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is noises of disbelief.

Bogo gives me a kind smile and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He opens it up, looks inside, and whips out assorted hundreds and fifties. After he counts them out, he puts them on the table in front of me.

"What say you, kid?" he asked. "Still want to do it all on your own?"

My brain is detached from my body, but my mouth still figures out how to speak on its own.

"Dude, don't give a sixteen-year-old smoker this kinda power."

Bogo starts laughing, but I'm serious as all heck. What if I decide to spend it all on smokes? But Bogo puts a meaty, muscle-clad hoof on my shoulder.

"I trust you to do the right thing, kid," he says. Then his face morphed into the "I forgot something" position. "Never caught your name, by the way."

"Nick," I reply. "Nick Wilde."

"Well, Nick," Bogo says, "you're smarter than most, and braver. Not a lot of people are willing to accept our help."

"Anything to get me out of this mess," I say.

"Is making a deal with the devil included in that?"

Now I'm the one laughing. "Are you kidding? I make a deal with the devil every Saturday night."

* * *

 _ **Nine Years Later**_

"You racist jerkhole!"

"Yeah, yeah, blame the protector of the peace," I reply as I shove the kid's head into the back of the squad car. Dude has some big antlers, but I don't need a second try to get him in the car safe and sound. Very sound. And complaining.

"You don't understand!" he protests at me, on the verge of whining.

"What, the drugs aren't yours and your friend was sitting in the driver's seat last night?" Judy chimes in, though not nearly sounding as sarcastic and cynical as I am.

"No, the drugs are mine," the deer explains. "But I swear, it was just this one time!"

I look at the bag of dope on the front of my wagon. "A felony quantity of drugs was in your car, but it was for 'just this one time?'"

"It's the mafia, okay? I've gotta repay a debt I've racked up to them!"

That hits home. I know how that feels. I can feel my face fall into a serious frown. Judy, though, has never owed a relentless crime lord anything, so she keeps going.

"Sure," she says. "And I'm actually a psycho bunny."

I close the door on him so I can have a private conversation with my work partner.

Correction. Wife. A private conversation with my _wife_.

"Honey," I start. "Let me hear him out."

Judy gives me a look- one of those "I can't believe you're seriously thinking this is real" looks- and puts her paws on her hips.

"Nick, I know this is personal for you, but you can't take every perp's word as gospel."

"Listen, Jude," I explain in the nicest way I possibly can. I want to win the argument, of course, but I've got to go to bed with her tonight, and I'd rather not wake up to see her on top of me with her gun in my face. Not that that's ever happened before, because she's a very mild-mannered bunny, but you never know. Some the nicest animals can go from zero to psycho instantaneously. Manchas taught me that. Of course, he was hit by Doug's night howler rifle, which was what made him go savage in the first place, but-

"I'm listening."

Oh, right. Here I am on a stream of consciousness and Judy's expecting me to say something. Now what was my point? Oh, yeah. "Jude, if he really _is_ telling the truth, then we can't take the risk of leaving him at the mercy of Mr. Big."

"And if he isn't?"

"Then a narc head loses some more brain cells and makes it easier for us to catch him next time. Besides, you, Bogo, my mother and I are the only ones who actually know that I owed the mafia. And I guess the mafia knows that, too, but they don't count."

Judy rolls her eyes. "Why did you have to use logic?"

"Because I logic the greatest," I reply, cracking a smile. That's one of our inside jokes, "logic the greatest." We say it whenever we drop some knowledge on the other's tail. We share a few moments of chuckling.

"Well," I sigh. "Let's see if I can't get this kid out of his problems."

"Have at him, tiger," Judy says with a smile.

I open the car door, but look back at her with a somewhat suave expression. "I'm a fox, not a tiger." I turn to the kid.

"Nice earring," I say. "Scootch over. You're in the way."

The kid moves his tail over to the other side of the backseat, and I sit myself pretty much right next to him. "Seriously though, that's a really cool earring. Real diamond, too." I know I sound like a tail-kisser, but I can't let it go. I really love this kid's bling.

The deer looks up at his ear, even though he can't actually see it (oh, wait, he can; prey have those weird eyes where they can see everywhere except directly behind them), and says, "Yeah, it is. That's an honest-to-God stone right there."

He was already warming up to me. Rule number one of being a cop: always make sure you're friendly to everyone. Wait, that's not right. Maybe it's "present yourself as approachable." Nah. Whatever. I'll get it later. "Nice. Ya know, I used to have a ring too."

He gives me a look. "First fox to graduate the academy had a ring?"

"How'd you know I was the first?" I ask.

"Anyone can know a follower, but all know the followed," the kid says enigmatically. Then the crafty little guy cracks a smile, a smile that kinda says, "Figure _that_ one out, smartsy." Luckily, I had a college roommate that loved that kind of stuff, so I knew exactly what he said.I allow myself a little smile. "True. Everyone knows the trendsetter."

He raises an eyebrow. "Dang, you're good."

I shrug. "I'm a fox, it's what we do." Great. We're getting off topic again. I extend the paw of friendship, hoping the kid shakes it. "Name's Nick, but you probably already knew that."

The kid shakes my paw firmly, not one of those super movement-heavy shakes that a couple friends might give each other, but a polite business handshake. "Evin," he replies.

"Evin. Nice name." I put my elbow on the windowsill and keep the conversation going. "So tell me a little bit about yourself. I mean, sure, that contraband might be yours, but owing money to the mafia...now, _that_ ' _s_ a serious issue. So tell me how it happened."

The kid sighs. I've heard it countless times before: the "am-I-gonna-be-totally-honest-or-should-I-sugarcoat-it-until-it-looks-like-a-powdered-donut" sigh. I've too much experience in coaxing information out of all kinds of animals. A little reassurance is all this guy needs.

"Hey, kid, look at me." Evin slowly stares straight into my eyes. I'm reminded of that phrase: "deer in the headlights," you know? "If you're seriously in trouble with the mafia, I can help you a lot more than you think," I explain. "And I'll do everything I can to get you out from under their thumb."

Evin nods his head from side to side in deliberation, finally saying, "All right. Basically, I come a poor family. And I mean poor. Like 'my mom and I live in an apartment that we can barely afford' poor. So when my mom had…" He hesitated, his lips quivering. "...medical problems…" He choked on the words as he said them. "...I had to come with the money to help her. So I went to one of the polar bears that work for the mafia and asked for a loan. After they brought me to their boss, he gave me money to take care of my mom. With interest."

I pinch the bridge of my snout lightly. "How much?" I sigh reluctantly.

"$750 with fifty percent interest."

I whistle lowly, looking back at the kid. "You're in the hole for over a thou?"

He nodded grimly.

I sit back in the chair. Ooh. I never really got to appreciate it, but _man_ , that's some nice leather. "So, one thousand and one twenty-five smackers later…" I say in a way that hopefully prompts him to finish the sentence.

"One thousand twenty-five later, and I got a healthy mom and a waist-high pile of debt," Evin says. "And if I don't come up with the cash by the end of the week, I can say goodbye to life. Man, I'm going to jail on my mom's birthday. Please, man, don't do this."

"Look," I mutter. "I'll see what I can do, okay?"

Evin looks at me like I'm the Messiah. "Please, dude. You _have_ to help me."

A thought barges into my head, and I start giggling. "It's like an episode of _Fur Notice_."

Evin chuckles, his spirits lifted a little. "Yeah, but you've got to operate within the law. The _Fur Notice_ team can do pretty much whatever they want."

"Hey, you watch _Fur Notice_?" I ask in good spirit.

"Yeah," Evin says, a little melancholy. "When I can. We've got a TV in the apartment, so we get reruns. Somehow the episodes are in chronological order anyway."

I like this kid. He's bright, he's funny, he's poor...God, he reminds me of me when I was in high school. "Nice," I approve. "That's fortunate. No spoilers that way, right?"

"Yeah," Evin snorts softly. "Exactly."

"All right, give me a minute to think," I say, and I close my eyes thinking of ways to fix the problem. Hold on! I've got it! After I realized that diamond-studded wedding rings for Judy and I weren't as expensive as I thought they'd be, I put the leftover money from my blackjack casino winnings in the bank. Man, was that the best undercover cop mission ever. Ended up winning over six thousand bucks. I left the jewelers store with about four thousand. Not because I'm cheap and bought the least expensive stuff in the store, but because I always overestimate how much things cost. Once, I brought ten bucks with me to get a Foxstar energy drink. I walked out with the drink and six bucks in change. Plus, I discovered that I hated Foxstar and promptly made the switch to Animal. "Provides the hard, fast sting that only Animal can." God, I love that stuff. Anyway, it's time to make a withdrawal. All four K. "Gimme a minute to talk with my partner, kid," I say, climbing out and closing the door. Judy's resting her arm on the roof of the car and leaning on it. She's giving me a look: narrowed eyes and a smirk. Not angry-looking, more...provocative. I quickly check to make sure I haven't grown at all, then look back up. "What?" I ask.

"So are you falling for it?" she asks.

I raise an eyebrow, my own smirk finding its way onto my face. "I'm not falling for anything. I'm taking him to Big. If is he says the kid's really in debt to the mafia, I'll cover the cost. If he isn't, then I'll arrest him for felony possession and lying to an officer."

Judy chuckles. It's a pitying chuckle, like a chuckle that says, "You're such an idiot." She opens the door. "All right, kid, we're gonna swing by Officer Wilde's house so he can get together the world's biggest bake sale."

Was that a shot? "Hey!" I protest as I hop in the passenger's seat. "Ye of little faith!"

Judy closes the door on Evin and walks around the the driver's door. As she gets in and buckles herself up, she says, "I really hope you know what you're doing, Nick."

I give her a reassuring smile. "When have I ever not known what I was doing?"

* * *

"For a cop, you've got a nice car."

I look over at Evin, smiling at him confidently so I could look good on the outside while I figured out how to tell him I was Mr. Big's granddaughter's godfather without explicitly saying it. Perks of marrying the bunny cop that saved Big's daughter. Anyway, he was so grateful, he gave Judy and I random "wedding gifts" each month.

We've been together, and by that I mean "married," for about eight months.

"Yeah. I have connections," I reply vaguely. "Legitimate connections, you understand. I'm a cop."

"Course," he said. "You're the last guy I'd expect to be a dirty cop."

I open my door. "Okay, I'm gonna pop the trunk, grab the cash, and we'll walk in."

"Yeah, sure," comes the reply as I grab the suitcase from the bank and start counting out fifteen hundred. Figure giving a crime boss more than he asks for can't hurt. Give an arctic shrew a cookie, and you'd best give him the milk with it or he'll have a polar bear put a gun to your head until he gets his cow juice. I've gotta work on refining that sentence.

I double check that I've got all one-point-five thousand, then close the trunk to see Evin standing pretty much right over me. After I jump back and stop panting in fear, I ask, "What's up?"

"Where are we exactly?" he asks.

I tilt my head at him. "The mafia safehouse in Tundratown, of course."

Evin's eyes go wide. "What are you doing?! We can't be here!"

"Heyheyhey," I hiss, trying to calm him down. "It's all right. The mafia boss and I go back, okay? We saved and spared each other's lives, so we're on good speaking terms." Not helping. He's still freaking out. "Hey. Evin. You have my personal promise that nothing will happen to you. Okay?"

Evin nods quickly. "Okay."

I clap his shoulder reassuringly. "Trust me, kid. I'm a fox."

* * *

"Nicky! It's so good to see you again!"

I give Mr. Big the old one-two kiss on the cheeks that Italians love and step back, giving a few of his henchmen friendly looks. I only get a response from Kevin, who nods and smiles half heartedly, and Nyevsky, who...I don't know, kinda grunts and mutters something in Russian. He never really talks much anyway. And when he does, even though I speak Russian, he never actually makes sense.

"Same, Mr. Big," I reply. "I thank you for the continued support of my marriage."

Mr. Big chuckles, waving his tiny little cigar around as he speaks. That's the thing about Italians: they always talk with their paws. "It is rather a pleasant surprise to see you here," he says. "I would think that you should still be patrolling the streets for my men." The sentence had a kind of bitterness to it, like he's fishing for an apology.

"Look, I'm sorry I can't let you roam free, but you guys gotta be put in check every so often or else it gets suspicious," I explain. "And in a way, I'm still _at_ work." I turn around and look at Evin. "Come on! I won't bite, promise. You're not even part of my natural diet. Come on."

Evin inches forward cautiously, and soon he gets close enough for me to put an arm around.

"I believe you know this kid," I say to Mr. Big. "He came to you asking for money to pay for his mother's medical needs."

Mr. Big rests his elbows on his chair and perches his fingertips on one another. "Yes, I remember this face. Evin, right?"

Evin's now looking like he might leap for the door. His eyes are as wide as a hippo's rear end as he says, "Y-Yes, sir."

"So what's wrong? Turning him in for not living up to our agreement?" Mr. Big asks, his unibrow doing some really weird moving around. "You shouldn't have."

"No, Mr. Big, not at all," I say, and put the case in front of him. With both thumbs, I pop the latches and lift open the case.

The shrew looks at the money and tilts his head. "How, uh-" He coughs. "How much money is this?"

"One thousand and five hundred dollars," I say. "By my calculations, that's and extra three seventy-five on top of what he owes you. I'm giving this to you on his behalf. I want to pay off his debt."

Mr. Big looks at the money, then at me, then at Evin. At least, that's the best eye movement I can see. The unibrow's kind of making it that much harder to figure out where he's looking. Then he breaks into a smile.

Good. He's happy.

"Of course, Nicky, of course!" he says, spreading his arms open wide just like he did when he told Judy to say hello to Grandmama.

Hey, I'm hyper observant. I make connections to things that everyone else deems obscure. Don't judge me.

Mr. Big snaps his fingers, prompting Kevin to take the case and count it all out. It takes him a few seconds (if you ask me, math probably wasn't his best subject in school), but eventually he looks up and says, "It's all here, boss."

Wow. He can count. That was unexpected.

"Excellent, Nicky!" Big leans forward for another cheek-kissing. I make my lips as small as possible to try and make sure I don't accidentally push him out of the chair. Apparently, that's happened before. Not when I've done it, though; I've known him long enough to keep myself out of harm's way. Well, at least all the harm that he _throws_ my way. "Of course, of course." He looks at Evin (I think; like I said, the eyebrows, er, eyebrow make it hard to figure out what he's looking at) and says, "All right, kid. Your debt's gone. I'll call off the hit on you."

Evin looks about as relieved as he can be. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"

But Big holds up his paw. "Thank Nick, not me. I'm not the one who paid me extra cash to look the other way. You owe him your life, understand that?"

Evin nods. "Yes, yes, of course."

Mr. Big gestures to the door. "If that's all, Nicky, I have business to attend to."

"Of course," I reply, knowing full well that I have business to attend to as well. Criminals aren't gonna arrest themselves. I walk back towards the door and direct Evin towards his salvation. So here we are, predator and prey working together. Kind of poetic, because not only are we predator and prey, but we're cop and robber, too. It's like nature decided to take yin and yang and smash them together. Like how Momma Nature made pugs. Just wind up and pitch that sucker face-first into a wall. Fastball right down the middle of the plate.

As the doors close, I hear Evin start to talk.

"Oh, my God, you saved my life in there! I can't thank you enough!"

"Serve and protect, that's what I do," I say. And I'll be doing more than that. This kid needs some kinda support for him and his mom, so I'm gonna help him. I pop the trunk, much to Evin's surprise.

"Hey, what are you doing back there?" he asks.

I can't help but crack a smile while I reach for the briefcase, but as soon as I stand back up, I'm completely serious again.

"Helping you out," I say. And with that, I slam the case on the trunk of my car and click it open.

Evin's jaw drops pretty much instantaneously. "H-how-what?"

I had to at least give him a chuckle. "So you remember the other cop?"

"Yeah?"

I gesture to the money before his eyes. "This is what's left over of the money I spent on our engagement rings. All four G's of it." Evin doesn't look like he'll regain control of his jaw anytime soon, so I keep going. "It's been sitting in the bank, just collecting dust for the past year or so. _I'm_ not gonna use it anytime soon. It'd be a nice head start on paying off your rent. Hey, you might even have enough left over to start a college fund. The possibilities are endless."

"D-dude," is all he can say. "Wh-why? I mean, it's not like I don't want it, four K's a lot of cash, but why me?"

I don't even think about it; I put my paw on his shoulder. It's not creepy, just unusual. "You remind me of me. Yeah, I know, it's weird, isn't it? Cop with a troubled past. Well, it was either that or work for some sort of bigwig independent security something-or-other, and I'm not cut out for government-sanctioned black ops. So here I am. You know, the whole reason I can pay off your debt is because I used to be in debt to Mr. Big too. So...I can relate."

Evin's silent for a long while. I don't want to have one of those awkward moments where we both talk at the same time and end up cutting each other off, though, so I just wait. Eventually, Evin throws me a curveball.

"How'd you get out of it?"

Great. Now I'm gonna sound like I made it up on the spot. Oh well. Might as well tell the truth. "Ironically, the current chief of police, Bogo - we don't know his first name - he paid off my debt. I guess that when you have something nice done for you, you do the same to others that are in your position. Truth is stranger than fiction."

Side note: one of the best things you can say to lower people's suspicions that you're lying is "Truth is stranger than fiction."

Evin's eyes have started to well up. Here we go. He puts his hoof on my shoulder and grabs it a little painfully. I think he might have just broken skin.

"Thanks, man," is all he can say.

"Absolutely no problem." I shake his hoof off my shoulder, pack up the case and give it to him. "Now hold this while we go home. You've got a birthday present for your mother."

* * *

"Evie!"

Evin looks really awkward as he hugs his mom. Probably trying to play off the cool factor, what with me being here and all. Then again, maybe it's the fact that he has a suitcase in one hoof. In any case, I usher my paw at him, goading him to hug her just as he should. He complies, relaxing and wrapping his arm around his mom. "Hey, Ma," he says.

"What's happened?" she asks. Evin looks at me with one of those "Please don't tell her everything" looks. I sigh and proceed to give Evin's mom the exclusive story. "We pulled your son over for a broken taillight. He was acting suspicious, so we searched the vehicle. It seems as if Evin's been dealing narc for a couple of weeks. Just minor stuff, misdemeanor quantities."

Evin's mom looks at him, clearly affronted. "Evin! What were you thinking?!"

"Ma, I was doing it for you!" Evin protests.

"Evin told me he was doing it to pay off debts that you had for your recent medical needs. Turns out he owed the mafia over a thousand dollars."

"Evin, we can't even afford a _tenth_ of that!"

"Hold on, hold on! I said owed, not owes!" I say, getting her to calm down once again. "I took care of it for him. I paid the mafia the amount agreed upon. And when Evin here told me about your birthday today, I couldn't help but…" Nope. Not gonna spoil it for her. That's Evin's honor. "Well, go ahead," I prompt him.

Evin gives her the suitcase. "Here, Ma. Courtesy of Officer Wilde."

Evin's mom undoes the snap locks on the case and opens it. The minute she sees what's inside, she gives an audible gasp, her eyes go wide, and she clasps her hoof over her mouth.

Yep. I was expecting that.

She starts breathing heavily. This is usually the point of a movie where the guy who's giving someone something starts explaining what it is. Might as well. "Four thousand dollars. You can use it for anything. And I mean anything. I told Evin here, pay off your rent, send him off to college with some of that money. Make your lives a little bit better."

She looks at me with tears in her eyes. "Thank you," she says breathlessly. "Thank you."

I hold up a paw. "Just doing my job."

"No, you're not," Evin says, walking up to his mom and placing his arm around her, all the while looking at me. "Your job is to keep us safe, not financed. Four thousand dollars you gave us, man. Four thousand dollars to a couple of totally random strangers that, for all we know, you have every reason to hate. We can't express how thankful."

"You want to say thanks?" I ask him. "Look out for your ma, just like you always have. Keep your muzzle clean, and build a future for yourself that includes more than hustling."

Evin nods. "I promise you, Officer Wilde."

"Call me Nick." I honestly have no idea why I said it, but it seems to have blended into the conversation pretty nicely. What the hey, I'll let it go.

Evin's grin gets even wider. "Nick. I'll stay out of trouble."

I smile back. "Great. You have a lot of potential, Evin. For the good of civilization, use it." I give them a goodbye wave and turn back to my car. I almost get to the driver's door before I realize the sun's almost down. I consult my watch. Huh. I'm off work already? Wow. Helping Evin out took longer than I thought. Well, at the very least, I have a good excuse for when Bogo tries to grill me about the whole AWOL thing. I hop in the car and start the engine. But before I pull out into the street, I take one last look at Evin and his mom. They're both crying tears of gratitude, still looking at the money. Evin's mom reaches into the case and takes a stack of money out of it. I can't hear what she's saying, with the windows down and all, but I'm not bad at lip reading.

"Go pay off our rent," she tells him. Evin replies with a kiss on the cheek before running up the steps to their apartment building.

I can't help but smile wide. I could have been the guy that screwed them over even more by putting Evin in jail and stopping the cash flow that he had been raking in. But instead, I showed a little compassion, and look where it got them. Of course, now I'm four grand poorer, but I don't care. Just knowing that I saved a really smart kid from slipping into hustles is good enough.

Wait. Why are my cheeks red? And why's it raining? My vision's all blurry.

…

Nick Wilde, you sly devil. You're making yourself cry.


End file.
